Three Things to Remember by William Blake

    A Robin Redbreast in a cage,
    Puts all Heaven in a rage.

    A skylark wounded on the wing
    Doth make a cherub cease to sing.

    He who shall hurt the little wren
    Shall never be beloved by men.

To the Evening Star by William Blake

    Thou fair-haired angel of the evening,
    Now, whilst the sun rests on the mountains, light
    Thy bright torch of love; thy radiant crown
    Put on, and smile upon our evening bed!
    Smile on our loves, and while thou drawest the
    Blue curtains of the sky, scatter thy silver dew
    On every flower that shuts its sweet eyes
    In timely sleep. Let thy west wing sleep on
    The lake; speak silence with thy glimmering eyes,
    And wash the dusk with silver. Soon, full soon,
    Dost thou withdraw; then the wolf rages wide,
    And the lion glares through the dun forest.
    The fleeces of our flocks are covered with
    Thy sacred dew; protect with them with thine influence.

Infant Sorrow by William Blake

    My mother groaned, my father wept:
    Into the dangerous world I leapt,
    Helpless, naked, piping loud,
    Like a fiend hid in a cloud.

    Struggling in my father's hands,
    Striving against my swaddling-bands,
    Bound and weary, I thought best
    To sulk upon my mother's breast.

Infant Joy by William Blake

    "I have no name;
    I am but two days old."
    What shall I call thee?
    "I happy am,
    Joy is my name."
    Sweet joy befall thee!

    Pretty joy!
    Sweet joy, but two days old.
    Sweet Joy I call thee:
    Thou dost smile,
    I sing the while;
    Sweet joy befall thee!

The Tyger by William Blake

Tyger, tyger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder and what art
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And, when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand and what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears,
And watered heaven with their tears,
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the lamb make thee?

Tyger, tyger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

The Shepherd by William Blake

How sweet is the Shepherd's sweet lot!
From the morn to the evening he stays;
He shall follow his sheep all the day,
And his tongue shall be filled with praise.

For he hears the lambs' innocent call,
And he hears the ewes' tender reply;
He is watching while they are in peace,
For they know when their Shepherd is nigh.

The Lamb by William Blake

Little Lamb, who made thee
Dost thou know who made thee,
Gave thee life, and bid thee feed
By the stream and o'er the mead;
Gave thee clothing of delight,
Softest clothing, woolly, bright;
Gave thee such a tender voice,
Making all the vales rejoice?
Little Lamb, who made thee?
Dost thou know who made thee?

Little Lamb, I'll tell thee;
Little Lamb, I'll tell thee:
He is called by thy name,
For He calls Himself a Lamb
He is meek, and He is mild,
He became a little child.
I a child, and thou a lamb,
We are called by His name.
Little Lamb, God bless thee!
Little Lamb, God bless thee!

The Chimney Sweeper by William Blake

A little black thing in the snow,
Crying "weep! weep!" in notes of woe!
"Where are thy father and mother? Say!"
"They are both gone up to the church to pray.

"Because I was happy upon the heath,
And smiled among the winter's snow,
They clothed me in the clothes of death,
And taught me to sing the notes of woe.

"And because I am happy and dance and sing,
They think they have done me no injury,
And are gone to praise God and his priest and king,
Who make up a heaven of our misery."

The Chimney Sweeper (Songs of Innocence) by William Blake

When my mother died I was very young,
And my father sold me while yet my tongue,
Could scarcely cry weep weep weep weep,
So your chimneys I sweep & in soot I sleep.

There's little Tom Dacre, who cried when his head
That curled like a lambs back was shav’d, so I said.
Hush Tom never mind it, for when your head’s bare,
You know that the soot cannot spoil your white hair

And so he was quiet. & that very night.
As Tom was a sleeping he had such a sight
That thousands of sweepers Dick, Joe, Ned, & Jack
Were all of them lock’d up in coffins of black,

And by came an Angel who had a bright key
And he open’d the coffins & set them all free.
Then down a green plain leaping laughing they run
And wash in a river and shine in the Sun.

Then naked & white, all their bags left behind.
They rise upon clouds, and sport in the wind.
And the Angel told Tom, if he’d be a good boy,
He’d have God for his father & never want joy.

And so Tom awoke and we rose in the dark
And got with our bags & our brushes to work.
Tho’ the morning was cold, Tom was happy & warm
So if all do their duty, they need not fear harm.